


Ghostbusters and Player Piano

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Demonstuck [58]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Demonstuck, M/M, Possession, THAT I MISSED POSTING ON HALLOWEEN BECAUSE MY DOG DIED, anon i am so sorry that this took me a good three months, halloween fic, tumblr prompt fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21646789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: Your hands slide over the scuffed cover, leaving tracks in the layer of dust, then slide it back. That movement's close to reverent; touching the keys is beyond close, it's like handling some holy object you've been separated from for what might as well be forever. There's less dust here, but the touch of your fingers still leaves marks—the piano's covered in years or decades of dust, every surface in this place is choked with it, and the ghost hasn't managed to save even their beloved instrument from it.Trick or treating on halloween, John picks up a supernatural hitchhiker of his very own.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider, John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Series: Demonstuck [58]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1003470
Comments: 16
Kudos: 108





	Ghostbusters and Player Piano

"John," Jr says, soft and impatient like they almost always are when they end up pushed far enough to say even one word. "Jo- _ohn._ John." 

Huh. The fact that they're talking out loud at all implies either they've had a bad experience walking down to one of the houses, or you've been ignoring them for a while. You're guessing it's the first one, since it _really_ doesn't feel like any length of time, but you...guess it could have been? Hey, everyone loses track of time once in a while, even when it's just past nine PM and you haven't had anything stronger than warm apple juice to drink— 

Jr taps your wrist until you look down at them. When you do, they sign out, _You've been standing here forever, I went to every house on the block already._

"What?" That's not right. You just stopped for like, a minute to consider the only vacant house on the street and wonder why nobody took the opportunity to turn it into something spooky for halloween. You would've done it if you'd lived near the thing—like, just a couple strings of black lights, a fog machine, couple skeletons in the yard...fake skeletons. Definitely fake skeletons. Well, maybe a real skull or two. Who'd be able to tell the difference if it's mixed in with plastic stuff? 

Then again, it's pretty spooky without any add-ons. Something about one single dark house in a street that's lit up, one driveway that doesn't have an adult handing out candy, one lawn that no kids seem to want to cross even to get to the next house. Actually nobody's even walked past you on this side of the street, now that you think of it— 

This time, Jr doesn't just tap you—they smack your arm, hard enough that you yelp and look down at them. As soon as your attention's where it should be, they cross their arms, holding both the pose and the miffed expression (wow, that looks one hundred percent more furious with clown makeup) for a few beats before uncrossing their arms to get both hands free again. 

_Stop looking at it._

"What?" 

_The house._

Oh yeah, the house. You glance over it and Jr jumps up to grab at a handful of your hair, hoisting themself up by the strap of your lovingly crafted proton pack. You're not sure which hurts worse, the strap on the other side digging into your neck or the hard yank. And it _is_ hard; Jr's perfectly capable of being gentle and does not seem to intend to use that ability at all right now. 

"What was that for—" 

They make a face, flapping one hand at you until you shut up. (It doesn't take a lot. Unlike the Striders in general, you're capable of recognising when someone else should be talking.) Once you _do_ stop, Jr grabs both your wrists and pulls until you turn, putting your back to the house. 

This has the added effect of putting their face in shadow, backlit by the lights of the house behind them. "Jr, that's creepy." Oh, and you see a problem above and beyond the fact that you feel like you're about to get dragged into a sewer and murdered horribly as they start to reply. Well, you don't see it. That's the problem. "I can't see your hands." 

Jr groans in exasperation and stops to dig in their half-full bag of candy, eventually coming up with the little pocket flashlight that all of the kids got before they left the safehouse earlier, clicking it on and sticking it in their mouth so they can have their hands free to sign. _You not having night vision is really, really stupid._

"Yeah, no shit, but I can't really help it that we're not all lucky enough to have Hal and Roxy improve on the basic human design." You huff and reach up to rub at your eyes with one hand. How are you this tired at—check your watch—wait, what? Quarter past ten? When did it get that late?

Jr grabs your arm as you try to turn around and glare at the vacant house. When you give them a puzzled look, they slash their free hand across their throat. You're not sure whether they mean the gesture metaphorically—something along the lines of _stop that_ —or in the slightly more literal sense of _if you look at that house again I can and will kill you._

Also you feel like it's best to not find out. 

"Ooookay, let's just...go see if everyone's back at the cars yet." They probably are. You're like, fifteen minutes late at this point. 

Jr nods and signs, _Okay_ with their free hand. They don't let go of your arm for another two blocks, though, and when they do you're pretty sure that it's just so they can sign at you again. _You should tell Dirk._

"Oh come on, it's not like—" 

_I can tell Hal instead._ Jr gives you a mischievous sidelong smirk as they sign that; you have to struggle not to groan. 

"Do _not._ " Damn it, they totally will. "Fine, I'll tell him. After we get home." 

_Promise?_

"Yeah, yeah." You roll your eyes and sketch two straight lines over the name tag hand-embroidered onto your shirt. "Cross my heart. Happy?" 

Jr just grins and gives you a double thumb's-up. Yeah, they're happy.

* * *

And you do mean to tell him, you really do, but by the time you join up with the others at the car there's about four separate and distinct sets of meltdowns going on—Dave and Karkat, Trizza, Seb, and Gale. Actually Seb's and Gale's crises might be linked; it's sort of hard to tell at the moment and you don't get a chance to ask, since the moment you walk into the space between the two vehicles Kurloz shoves Seb at you and you don't have enough presence of mind to _not_ take him. 

The moment you do, the demon steps back into wherever he goes when he uses magic to travel, leaving you with one sniffling kid dressed as a killer rabbit. Shit. 

"I'm...gonna guess it's time to go home." 

"Oh yeah, definitely." Dirk reaches up to run one hand through his hair and winces as he's reminded of the two hours you and Jake spent giving it a shitty curl job that's going to take a good week to wear off. (He does look like Sigourney, though. It's hot.) "I'm driving." 

"You're _not_ driving," Jake amends immediately. "We all like being alive, darling." 

"I'm not driving," either Dave or Karkat calls from the back of the pickup. 

Well, Gale's not driving, that's for sure. You smother a groan and shift Seb's weight a little, trying to think about who needs to be in which car. "...I'm driving. Just not with Dave and Karkat, thanks." 

"I'll get them and, um..." Jake glances from Dirk to Gale to the huddle of kids over by the minivan. "...Davepeta? Maybe?" 

There's an offended yowl from somewhere that way. "Yeah, no. I'll get all of them, it'll be fine." 

"You are going to get _arrested._ " 

"Not with Davesprite I won't." 

"Oh, fair. See you at home, then?" 

You grin and give him a thumb's up as you head for the minivan; the kids are already getting the door open to cram themselves inside. How helpful; you're totally going to stop and get them fries on top of the candy they've already had. It'll be _fine._

* * *

It's mostly fine. 

But you don't remember to tell Dirk about the weird factor before you collapse next to him, and you don't do it _then_ because you last about thirty seconds before you're all the way asleep.

* * *

And honestly, you forget about the weird factor until it starts up again, as a snippet of song caught in your head way too early the next morning. By "way too early" you specifically mean that you wake up when Jake gets out of bed (which is normal normal; Dirk tends to shift closer to you once the other heat source is gone, and you always come half awake just long enough to get him in a position where both of you are satisfied with the amount of contact and also not suffocating) and find yourself humming along with the music in your head instead of closing your eyes again. 

Which is _stupid._ It's—you have to turn your head to see the dial on your watch; Dirk makes a sleepy noise at being disturbed even that much—a quarter to six. This is one of the few days that Dirk's willing to stay in bed an extra hour or so; you should be either asleep or close to it, not humming something that you don't even actually recognise _and_ tapping your fingers against Dirk's back in some halfassed pattern. 

It's stupid and it's _also_ not fair. You just want to cuddle. 

You sigh and stubbornly close your eyes. Might as well give it ten more minutes.

* * *

Dirk kicks you out of bed before your time limit's up, mostly because you can't (won't? Nope, _can't_ ) stop tapping him. Like he actually drags himself close enough to fully awake to tell you that's why, before promptly passing out again. 

Rude. 

Eh, at least Jake has a caffienated beverage ready in the kitchen when you make your way there. It's tea, not coffee, but you only realize that _after_ you've pulled the cup out from in front of him and taken a way-too-big gulp of the contents. 

"...huh." 

Jake gives you an unfocused glare as you slide the mug back across the table; he either forgot his glasses back in the bedroom, or didn't feel like putting them on. "Oh come on, can't I even have breakfast in peace?"

"Tea with creamer in it doesn't even come close to counting as breakfast." 

"It does if you're not a bloody coward." He huffs and takes another sip, eyeing you over the rim. "Why aren't you keeping our Dirk company, anyway?" 

"Apparently I'm keeping him awake." Jake gives you a different kind of look at that, more confused than irritated. You avoid the necessity of admitting you're aware of it by reaching across the table to snag his phone. 

"Hey—" 

"I let you use mine to look up the bird we saw last week, come on." 

"You saw a bird?" 

"Wh—no." Because everyone in the household is, sooner or later, called upon to temporarily surrender their phone in the name of keeping kids entertained, every phone here has a couple specific apps. You scroll through Jake's homescreen until you find what you want—one of those music apps, complete with sim-keyboard. "I had a weird dream, or something." 

"Or something. John, what the bloody fuck are you talking about?" Jake stares at you as you open the app and tap a few keys, checking the tone. ",,,John." 

"Shut up for a second." It's somethin familiar. At least, the first note is—everyone who's either had an emo phase or been around someone who has knows that one. But you're not going to the city to see a marching band, you're....

_There_ it is. Even on the tiny screen the pattern clicks together, notes stop being separate and start flowing from one to the next. Three notes in and you feel the frustration you didn't even know you were carrying ease off, five and you have to grin at how smart you are for figuring this shit out when you're only debatably awake. 

Eight notes, and something unfamiliar and powerful surges up in your chest. 

Ten notes. Jakes's green eyes first widen and then roll back; he sags down, just barely missing tipping his tea over as he slides out of his chair and onto the floor. You've seen him do this probably hundreds of times, but it's never been so obviously your fault before. The panic that his collapse sparks almost disappears under the power coiling up with every note you hit. 

Thirteen notes, and there's no more room on the keyboard—the melody's supposed to dip here, go to the keys beyond what's onscreen. _You_ understand that you can just swipe to get at more keys, but whatever's trying to control you obviously doesn't—the fingers of your other hand press against the table in what's obviously the pattern for the next part of the song. When nothing happens, the pressure in your chest gets stronger, more frustrated and desparate; for a second you can't breathe. 

Then something seems to just snap. You (or maybe not you) sweep your hand across the table, sending Jake's phone flying. A disconnected jangle of notes comes out as it's airborne, and the power in the air just evaporates. 

Elsewhere in the house—not so far away that you can't hear them, but far enough that it's muffled—Davepeta yowls. If they're the one raising the alarm, for this, that means...

It's something dead. Maybe a ghost, maybe something worse. 

You know that you should get up and make sure Jake's okay, but right now you can't seem to force yourself to move. 

Maybe in a couple more seconds.

* * *

You keep telling yourself that you'll be fine in a couple more seconds. Unfortunately you manage to stretch that out just a few too many times—sure, Grey and Dave check Jake out first, spend a good two minutes trying to get him awake, but they _do_ eventually give up, and when they do, they (predictably) turn their attention to you. 

Well, Dave does. Grey's more occupied with hauling Jake's unconscious body our of the kitchen. You kind of wish Dave would help out with that too, but...

"...John?" Nope, no such luck—Dave frowns at you, perching on the edge of the kitchen table. (No, you don't know why no one's managed to tip that over yet.) "Holy fucking shit, you don't feel right. What happened?" 

"I don't—" Your fingers are pressing against the tabletop, both hands splayed on the ege like it's a piano and you're groping blindly for keys that aren't there. "Uh...just as a question, is there any chance I'm, you know. Possessed?" 

Dave just stares at you for a good half minute. Not exactly reassuring, especially when his eyes flicker from human to demon and back again a couple times. Eventually, though, he shrugs, shaking his head. 

"Nah, the vibe I'm getting here is more 'panic attack' and less 'magic shit,' bro." 

"...shit." 

"That's usually a _good_ thing, isn't it? Even with us?" 

"Not when I just knocked Jake out with freaky music-channeling stuff, it isn't." 

"Uh. Yeah, that's..." Dave frowns and boosts himself up more securely onto the table, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "That's not too great." 

"Nice understatement." 

"Yeah, thanks, it's an offshoot of irony. Rose says she'll have a video call up in ten minutes tops."

* * *

An hour and a half, two videoconferences, and an exorcism and a half later, the conclusion is reached that you're not possessed. You're not going to say that _you_ reach the conclusion, because you only kind of participate in this—sure, you're here, you're sitting still while Hal draws on you with a marke, you're having your mind poked at by Karkat, Dave, and Rose (thankfully not all at the same time) but that's sort of on the back burner. 

....yeah, this shouldn't be on the back burner. Especially when the "important" thing is the song that's _still_ stuck in your head, despite everyone's best efforts. You point is, you're _done._ You're done. At this point you think you're allowed to be done, too. Despite the fact it's only like nine in the morning, you're definitely heading back to bed for the foreseeable future. 

Of course, there's...already someone there. (Yes, you forgot you left Dirk half-asleep. Sort of surprised he's still here, though—hasn't it been a while?) He rolls over when he hears the door open, giving you a fuzzy smile which promptly disappears when you pull your glasses off and fling them at him. 

He probably catches them. You're not totally sure, since as soon as they're out of your hands you choose to faceplant into the blankets. 

"What the fuck, John?" 

Gotta tell him sooner or later. You might as well make it sooner. "I knocked Jake out." 

"Oh?" Even from one not-really-a-word you can hear the grin he's probably already smothering; somehow that doesn't help at all. "Isn't it a bit early to be starting shit? I'm sure he deserved it, but—" 

This is where he touches you, one hand coming down on your shoulder like he's planning to nudge you into rolling over. He doesn't follow through on the move, thankfully—you don't think you want to try to cope with that right now—just freezes and goes silent for a second. 

When he does speak, the half-laughing note's gone out of his voice. "Shit. You're shaking." 

Oh. You guess you are. 

"John, what happened?" 

You should probably tell him, but what happens is that you raise your head enough to talk intelligibly, open your mouth, and start sobbing. It startles you worse than it startles Dirk; he swears under his breath and slides across the bed to curl next to you, one arm draped over your back and his head right up next to yours. 

It's exactly what he does when Jake's the one having a crisis. Somehow that doesn't really make you any more coherent. You're supposed to be the one who _isn't_ the crisis, dammit! Keeping the two of them at least kind of optimistic, not—

Yeah you are having a meltdown. Not great, but at least you're pretty sure Dirk's not going to leave until you're over it.

* * *

It takes what feels like an hour to get yourself under enough control that you can give Dirk a mostly-coherent explanation of the situation. (It probably isn't an hour. More like fifteen minutes or so, but time gets a little weird when you're this upset about shit, when Dirk's laying here with you and holding you once you calm enough to roll over and grab for him.) 

He listens to your take on what's going on, amber eyes narrowing as he processes it. "You're sure it's a ghost?" 

"What else could it be?" 

"A demon. A dispossessed elemental. Someone who fucked up astral projecting. A—" 

"Okay, okay, stop. I get the point." Well, you're feeling something other than the crushing despair you were going with when you came in here, so that's something. "It's a ghost, trust me on this one." 

"Hey, that's better than a demon." The face Dirk pulls reminds you that he's got a slightly disturbing amount of experience with demons and possessions. "Ghosts usually want something, though...what does yours want?" 

That's...huh. "I don't know?" 

"I mean. You probably do, just not on the surface—" 

"You're not helping, Dirk." 

"That's...yeah. I'm trying." He sighs and rolls over onto his back, pulling you along to lay on top of him. Okay, this actually does make things marginally better. "...we know basically where you picked it—" 

"Him." 

"Sorry. Where you picked _him_ up, right?" 

"I...sort of?" You know _when_ the ghost made contact—it had to have been when you zoned out taking Jr around—but _where_ is a different story. Sense of location isn't your strong suit, and it being the middle of the night definitely didn't help. "I mean, I can figure it out. Probably." 

"Yeah, we can see if we can pull a location fix while D's trying to get enough info for an exorcism, at least..." 

That note in his voice makes you want to grimace; instead, you raise yourself up on your elbows to check his expression. Oh, yep, that's exactly what you expected. "Dirk." 

"Hm?" 

"Quit looking so excited about me being haunted or we're leaving you at home while I take this dude back where he came from." 

It's an empty threat. You know it, and Dirk obviously knows it too, if the way he huffs out a laugh and pulls you down for a kiss is anything to go on.

* * *

Jr's already on the laptop with D, narrowing down the possible locations with a combination of sign language, pointing, and shoving D's hands out of the way to move the cursor down the map themself. You're guessing it's effective, even if you can't really contribute anything yourself—not only do you not recognize any of the street names, the ghost doesn't seem to want to sit still for more than a couple seconds. 

Any longer than that and your hands start shaking, twitching like they're looking for a keyboard to pick out the melody in your head on. You're already unfortunately aware that one of the electronic keyboards in the house isn't going to work—that was maybe the third thing Rose suggested trying—and just sitting and watching your hands move without your input is way more creepy than you want to deal with right now. Which is weird, really—you've seen a demon eat a corpse whole, you've seen gunshot wounds that healed themselves in minutes and ones that emphatically did _not_ do that, you've seen shit that most people would write off as special effects, and it's a little bit of possession that fucks you up? 

Ridiculous. But you still give up maybe ten minutes in, in favor of laying across Dirk's lap, on your stomach with your face buried in a pillow so you don't have to look at your hands. Somehow it's a little bit better when you can only feel them moving, even if Dirk does keep jerking at the feeling of your attempts to play piano on his leg. 

Hm. Maybe you should try this in a different setting, actually. As in, when it's just you and him ( _maybe_ Jake) and no ghost, maybe with some candles...okay maybe don't have this kind of train of thought when there's a hitchhiker in your head. Even if it does sound fun...

_Stop that,_ you think, almost exactly at the same moment that Jr yelps in triumph and D echoes him, adding, "Found it! Streetview fuckin' rules!" 

Dirk pats your back. "Ready to go see if we can get a handle on what this ghost wants?" 

Hell yes you are. Or more to the point, the ghost is; you barely even have time to think about whether you're ready to move or not before you're on your feet and headed for the door.

* * *

Dirk doesn't let you drive, which is definitely a good thing; your hands won't stop trying to play on any surface near you. It gets worse the closer you get to the house, less ordered twitching and more uncontrollable shaking; it shouldn't really be unexpected but somehow you're surprised anyway. Stupid—of _course_ the ghost's going to get stronger as it gets closer to its body—

There's another weird thing, now that you think of it. Why the hell is there a corpse somewhere in a stupid abandoned house anyway? Well, a skeleton by now, probably—new spirits aren't usually strong enough to control when they're piggybacking and resist exorcism—but still. It's weird. 

Unfortunately you are putting these thoughts together as you hop out of the truck, not at any time when they could've been of use. At this point all you can really do is head across the overgrown lawn, fighting the ghost's need to get the door _now_ and not managing to do a lot other than to stumble every couple steps. Great. 

The ghost sends a wave of irritation at you for fighting at all. This has the unfortunate effect of tangling your feet together just as you get to the border of rocks around the dead garden that borders the porch. Oh, this one's going to hurt. 

Good thing Grey's capbable of catching you like you'd catch Seb or Jr, though. He sets you back on your feet, but holds you back when you try to start towards the house again. "John, maybe we should wait for Gale or Dirk to get the door open?" 

Oh. Good point. You don't think you can pick locks when your hands are shaking this badly. You open your mouth to agree with him, and what comes out instead is, "We keep a key above the door." 

Grey blinks in what you're guessing is confusion, letting go of your arm. The idea is probably that you stay put and have a civilized conversation about why exactly you think you know that, but what _actually_ happens is that you bolt as soon as he's not actively restraining you. You're not really sure why he'd expect anything else at this point, honestly. 

It's been—your mind stutters at the number, trying to insist _twenty years_ and trying to insist _forever_ and trying to escape naming any number at all—a long time since you forgot (no, _he_ , the ghost, since the ghost forgot) to take the key when you (he, goddamnit, _he_ ) left the house. There's no reason it's going to be there. It _has_ to be there. It has to be. 

God fucking damn it you are too short to reach the little ledge hidden above the doorframe. If it was just you, you'd be mildly frustrated, but there's the ghost to take into account too; after just a second or two of struggling to stretch enough to reach, there's tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. 

_I should be able to reach I should be able to reach I should be able to—_

"Uh. John?" Gale steps up beside you, giving you a concerned look. Maybe a concerned look. It's hard to tell with them sometimes. "What—" 

"The key, the fucking _key_ —" Yes, you should be more specific. No, you're not going to be able to to that. Yes, punching the door is an acceptable alternative. 

It really isn't. Wow does your hand hurt now. You're going to do it again anyway. 

Before you can, Dirk graps your wrist. Then he grabs your other wrist, as you (or maybe the ghost?) decides that the best reaction to not being able to fuck up your hands by punching the house has to be punching _him_. 

"Holy shit, John." Dirk winces as you sob and try to yank free of his grip. "Gale, check on top of the door. In the frame, maybe?" 

"Oh—hang on." They nod and reach up—wait, since when are they taller than you. You _know_ that you should be at least an inch taller than them, but then again reaching counts as a gesture and Gale's gestures have power; they only have to grope around for a couple seconds before they come down of their tiptoes with a tiny, dull piece of metal in one hand. 

Bingo. 

Dirk eases up when he sees the key. The ghost's able to access enough of your reflexes to twist _just_ right, break his grip and snatch the key out of Gale's hand. They could probably stop you, or Dirk could if he felt the need to, but neither of them move to do that. Gale actually takes a step back as you shove the key into the keyhole and slam your fist against the door until something aligns right and the stupid thing clicks into place. 

_It wasn't this hard before,_ you think. Before? There wasn't any before. This is stupid! 

_Shut up! Shut_ up _!_

Okay then. loud ghosts are amazingly painful. You guess you're shutting up now. 

"John, maybe—" Dirk starts, and goes abruptly silent as you flap your free hand at him and toss the key back to Gale. Once that's taken care of, you turn and step into the darkness of the empty house. 

_Of my house. It's my house._

Are ghosts always this talkative? More to the point, what exactly are you supposed to be doing here? Sure, maybe it's just nostalgia, maybe all it wants to do is walk you through rooms that smell like dust and stale air, spaces that haven't seen the sunlight in years or even decades—every window's covered with sheets or curtains or boards, and Gale and Dirk's flashlights aren't making much of an impression, especially when they're behind you. 

You're pretty much working blind. Either the ghost isn't or it remembers the layout more perfectly than you remember anything; you haven't tripped on a single thing yet, which is more than you can say for Dirk. Still, you'd sort of like to stop before you change that... 

Nope, the ghost isn't cooperating with that idea. You keep walking, dodging obstacles you can't see (and hearing Dirk swear under his breath as he _absolutely_ fails to follow your example) and finding one door, two doors...

Three. It's the third door, you know that as soon as you walk through it. Dirk steps around you, yanking down the sheets that've been hung over the windows to let enough dusty sunlight in for you to be able to see where the ghost's directing you—the low stool in front of a—

Oh. Of course it's a piano. 

You don't know if you want to do this, but it's not like you have a choice, right? 

Right. So suck it up and shut up. 

You take your seat. The stool's not as comfortable as it used to be, you think; before, there was a cushion on it. A pillow. They took that when they left, you guess, or buried it with you. Either way, you guess you can't blame them. 

_I've never been here before,_ you deliberately think, because you're _so_ not just letting this visitor settle in and claim your body for its own—all else aside, Dirk would be pissed—and the ghost flashes pure desparation back at you. 

Holy shit. That's—you've never felt anything like that before—how long did they wait for someone they could coax in to pass by? How long would they have to wait again if you left? Do you even want to know?

_No._ You don't. 

_Then stop fighting me._ Please _, let me—I can't, I—_

Okay. Okay. 

No more fighting, just....just watch. 

Your hands slide over the scuffed cover, leaving tracks in the layer of dust, then slide it back. That movement's close to reverent; touching the keys is beyond close, it's like handling some holy object you've been separated from for what might as well be forever. There's less dust here, but the touch of your fingers still leaves marks—the piano's covered in years or decades of dust, every surface in this place is choked with it, and the ghost hasn't managed to save even their beloved instrument from it. 

(You're terrified it won't play like this.) 

_No! Be still!_

The flash of anger that coes with that thought isn't really genuine. The tears that're blurring your vision to the point where you can just barely see your own fingers brushing over the keys are. 

Someone's sobbing, soft and broken and painfully melancholy. You feel bad for them, but there's more important things to think about in this moment—like shifting the placement of your hands to cover both octaves needed for the opening. Like taking a breath, letting it out, picturing the wonderous colors of the notes in your mind— 

—and beginning to _play._

* * *

"That's where you remember up to, isn't it," Dirk says softly, a couple hours later and a couple more miles away from the house with the ghost's piano. You look up from the video you're watching (again) on his phone just in time to catch the look on his face before he can get rid of it—that weird mix of pity and anger that you're way more used to seeing directed at someone other than you. 

Onscreen, the ghost's still playing both your body and the piano, the notes somehow perfectly clear even though Dirk didn't have time to mic the piano beforehand. There's probably another minute and a half left in the melody, two left in the video as a whole, but you've seen it twice already and there's honestly not any reason to bump that number up to three; you pause the video and drop the phone in your lap. "How can you—" 

"You flinch every time you get to it." He shrugs, reaching back to adjust his ponytail as he drops onto the couch next to you. "Hal's doing the final edits; we should be able to post it in an hour or so. With the follower count on the safehouse channel, there should be someone who can tell us who he was." 

He. The ghost. The little pang of guilt in your chest is wholly your own. "Make sure you're clear about that not being me, okay?" 

Dirk gives you a side-eye that somehow perfectly conveys his concern, sidling a tiny bit closer and wrapping an arm around your shoulders. It's nice, or it would be if he wasn't so obviously unsure about being the one to initiate it. "It's a bit of a mindfuck, huh?" 

"Not so much as I thought it'd be." You'd think that after this long with not one but _two_ touchy-feely boyfriends, Dirk would be used to this kind of thing, but no. Apparently not. He doesn't relax until you lean up against him and thunk your head down against his shoulder. "It's just, you know. It's not my song." 

"That's sort of the point of posting it online, John. So someone can go off at us for stealing it and we can add the right credit." 

"Nobody else ever heard it." The ghost is gone from your head, but he left a couple definite truths behind, and that's one of them—he played for years, composed some works that he never thought were as good as people thought they were, and never had the chance to share the only one he ever really cared about. Speaking of which... "Do me a favor?" 

"Mm?" 

"Put the notation up with the video?" 

"You want other people to be able to learn it?" 

"Learn it, play it, hear it..." It's good that you've already got your head leaning over on Dirk's shoulder; that means that you only have to wiggle a bit, scooch over enough to get your other arm slung around his neck and use that as leverage to pull yourself onto his lap so you can bury your face in his chest properly. 

From the strangled sound he makes, you're guessing you pulled just a _little_ too hard there. But hey, he still reaches up to wrap one arm around you, cradling the back of your head with the other hand as you slump down. 

...huh. "Dirk. Why do you smell like patchouli?" 

"D lost the lid to his body wash and poured it into one of my mostly-empty bottles without telling me." There's actual shame in that brief explanation. God he is such a dweeb sometimes. "Are you afraid he's coming back if you don't give him what he wanted?" 

"What?" For a second you link the word _him_ to D instead of the ghost; by the time you work out what Dirk actually meant, he's talking again. 

"It doesn't work that way, I promise. I mean, I know you know it doesn't, but the whole posession thing can—"

"Haunting." 

"Right. Haunting, not possession. It makes it—difficult to remember—" 

"I know he's not coming back, Dirk." You take another patchouli-scented but still decently calming breath, sorting things out in your head for a couple more seconds. "...all he wanted was to be heard." 

"Ah." 

"It's not fair, Dirk." 

"I know." 

"He's dead." Stupid thing to point out about a ghost, but. Yeah. 

Dirk's kind enough to not point out it _is_ stupid, though. Instead he says, "I know," again, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. "It's not your fault." 

"No duh," you mumble back. Wow, those are definitely tears already. "I—he—it's not fair. It's not _fair._ " 

This is probably where Dirk figures out that you're looking for comfort, not understanding. It's where he shuts up and pulls you up closer, anyway, and dear god are you thankful for that. 

Maybe it's stupid to mourn someone who died decades ago, probably before you were even born. Someone whose name you're probably never going to know. Someone who only latched onto you because you were in the right place at the right time. 

Maybe it's stupid. Maybe it's not stupid at all. Either way, you lean into Dirk, and you cry for the ghost.


End file.
